


Storms, Tides, and Pearls

by EnduringParadox



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Diarmuid in Distress, Fluff, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mergust, Multiple Orgasms, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Romance, Sleazebag Raymond de Merville, smut in chapter 3 and chapter 4
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:54:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25787668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnduringParadox/pseuds/EnduringParadox
Summary: A series of Mermaid AU Diarmute fics. A different scenario every chapter, but all will contain a lot of fluff and romance.
Relationships: Brother Diarmuid/The Mute
Comments: 31
Kudos: 37





	1. The Leviathan

**Author's Note:**

> Ciaran, a researcher, finally visits Diarmuid, the merrow he raised, a year after releasing him into the wild. Diarmuid seems happy and healthy and has a mate! Ciaran, Rua, and Cathal meet this new merrow and are quite shocked at just how large he is.
> 
> A little play on some Discord discussion. Diarmuid still loves grapes, and he is small, at least compared to his mate. :)

At one point in time Diarmuid had been small enough to fit in Ciaran’s palm. The sight of the little merrow dozing against his thumb had brought forth a paternal, protective feeling that the researcher had never been able to shake, not even when Diarmuid reached the size of a (rather slight) adult male human. The young merrow had such a vibrant personality. His big brown eyes were so expressive, so curious, and he loved to chirp and chatter during their daily check-ups as Ciaran smiled indulgently and nodded.

To be honest, Ciaran would’ve been content to just have Diarmuid stay at the aquarium with them forever. Splashing Rua with water as he tried to take notes, swimming away from Cathal when he attempted to measure or weigh him, or chirping expectantly for the grapes Ciaran always kept in his pockets specifically as treats for the little merrow.

But during the summer Diarmuid lost his usual spark. The tank suddenly didn’t seem big enough for him; he swam listlessly and aimlessly in circles, trilling sadly. At first they thought he might simply want company and so they’d transferred him to a tank with a small pod of merrow. That had cheered him a bit, but he’d still been restless, anxious, uneasy.

When he started curling up in the corner of the tank, morosely ignoring Cathal’s offers of fresh fish and seaweed and even Ciaran’s bunches and bunches of red and green grapes, they made the difficult decision to release Diarmuid to the ocean. He’d finally outgrown the aquarium; the sea called to him.

It was the right decision. The little merrow’s health and well-being was on the line. But he’d raised Diarmuid since he was only the size of a guppy. “All Diarmuid’s ever known is the aquarium, and us,” he fretted to Cathal and Rua over drinks. “Will he be able to hunt for himself? Stay away from predators? Will he find a family of his own out there?”

_Will he be happy?_ Ciaran wondered miserably, taking a long swig of beer. _Will he be safe?_

Rua wasn’t quite tactless, but he came pretty close at times. He replied, “The little guy can either waste away in that tank or he can get the chance to make it out in the wild. It’ll be dangerous, no doubt about that, but he’s a clever creature, Ciaran. He’ll do just fine.”

“Lord, I hope so. I truly do hope so.”

They tagged one of his fins—Ciaran winced at the sound. Diarmuid’s scales were colorful, shimmering with bright blues and greens, and his tail and fins were like long strips of ribbon. So beautiful, and yet so delicate. But the merrow only eyed the device curiously and chirped.

“Keep it on,” Ciaran told him, “This will help us find you, out in the ocean.”

Diarmuid trilled in understanding and then proceeded to rifle through his pockets for grapes.

The water in the tank had always been temperature controlled, its chemical acidity carefully monitored, new flora and fauna only introduced after at least two rounds of discussion. The ocean was his kind's natural habitat, but it was unfamiliar and potentially dangerous to Diarmuid. Yet he seemed unperturbed. The merrow hugged him, his claws pulling at the material of Ciaran’s shirt, and Ciaran returned the embrace just as fiercely, knee-deep in seawater as the waves curled around them.

And then Diarmuid pulled back, smiled, and with a flick of his tail—splashed the three of them standing there—and was gone into the waves.

Rua cursed, shaking the water from his sleeves. “I should’ve fucking known he’d do that. Little brat.”

Ciaran chuckled and pretended to be interested in the horizon, staring at the endless ocean as he blinked away tears.

* * *

While the tag tracked Diarmuid’s location they hadn’t been able to procure a research vessel to check on his progress until the following summer.

Ciaran was eager to see him. In the beginning they’d watched, relieved, as Diarmuid had kept to an area with a known population of other merrows. But then he’d drifted further and further away from the shores until he was in the middle of the ocean, far away from any of the pods that they’d already logged.

What was it keeping him out there? What had he found? Ciaran hoped to find out.

* * *

His coat pockets were laden with grapes. A surprise treat for Diarmuid.

Theirs was not a huge research vessel—a 35-foot long trawler—but Cathal had wrangled a grant out of an environmental foundation and that’s what it had covered, and the boat suited the three of them just fine.

Diarmuid occasionally swam nearer to the shore, but he always came back to this one spot of sea. It’d been a long year without him. The tracker in the tag always kept Ciaran aware of the merrow’s location and as long as it still sent them data he knew Diarmuid was safe, but even so he worried.

They stalled the boat. Rua passed around a thermos of coffee for them to drink from as they talked and waited.

Their voices had always carried in the aquarium, echoing around the tanks. Diarmuid’s hearing must have been very fine indeed to hear the familiar sounds even in the ocean’s depths because after perhaps ten minutes he breached the water with a delighted trill and a wave. They hauled him onto the platform at the stern. Ciaran hugged him tight; Diarmuid was still dripping wet and his front was completely soaked in seconds, but what did that matter? It was so good to see the little merrow once more, happy, healthy, unharmed. Diarmuid accepted the embrace, snuggling into Ciaran’s arms, and then, as expected, rooted around in his coat pockets for grapes.

The merrow tolerated their photos and fluttering around him, happily popping grape after grape into his mouth as he chirped and trilled—no doubt babbling his adventures to them.

He’d grown, and not just longer. “You’ve gained a bit of weight, my boy,” Ciaran said, giving Diarmuid’s stomach a light pat, “Obviously someone’s been feeding you better than we were.”

At that Diarmuid’s eyes widened and a delighted smile broke out onto his face. He turned to the open and _sang_ to the waves.

Or, perhaps, to someone underneath them. As the loud, clear, lovely melody rang out around them, the three researchers scuttled about in excitement. Ciaran cried, “A mate—he’s got a mate!” What a wonderful relief, to know that Diarmuid hadn’t spent most of the long year alone and lonely.

“Well, he certainly got used to the ocean fast,” Rua mused.

Cathal peered over the side of the boat. “Does anyone else think that these waves are getting, uh, really choppy?”

It was. Ciaran glanced at the sky. Still sunny and clear. But the water around the boat rippled and surged, sloshing against the vessel’s sides, rocking it in the waves.

“What the fuck,” Rua said under his breath. A gigantic dorsal fin emerged from the ocean and headed straight toward them at a steady pace. Then the creature it was attached to emerged; the fin was followed by the head, neck, shoulders of an absolutely enormous merrow. Seawater dripped from his body like rain. His hair was dark, his beard—braided?—with seaweed, every inch of him littered with deep scars from teeth and claws and what appeared to be roughly healed gashes from propellers. The merrow’s eyes were so dark they were nearly black and they watched the three humans warily, his lips curled into a snarl, the sharp, white teeth the length and width of a grown man’s thumb.

He rested his arms on either side of the stern and Rua cursed and Cathal cried out in alarm as the boat _tilted_ down. Out of the corner of his eye Ciaran could see the merrow’s tail curling up and into the vessel like an eel.

“Oh, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Cathal whispered at the same time Rua shouted, “FUCK! Holy fucking shit!”

Diarmuid merely stared at them in confusion. He wriggled from Ciaran’s arms to the gigantic merrow, whose gazed softened. The creature lowered his head—the research vessel tilted alarmingly again—and smiled as Diarmuid pressed a kiss to his cheek. But the merrow’s black, black eyes stayed rooted to the panicking researchers.

The little merrow softly chattered and clicked in between reassuring kisses to his mate’s face.

_His mate_ , Ciaran thought with a disbelieving chuckle. He watched Diarmuid stroke the other merrow’s beard and run his fingers through the thick hair around his jaw line. He’d worried the entire year that Diarmuid would be bullied by the others merrows the wild, and here he was with quite possibly the largest one in the entire ocean. Certainly the biggest that Ciaran had ever seen in all his years of research. What a _monster_ the fellow was.

Cathal, who seemed to have gotten over his initial panic, wondered aloud, “Do you think he’d let us measure him?”

“Go ahead and give it a shot,” Rua muttered, “Just try and keep your arm away from his teeth.”

* * *

It hadn’t been nearly as big a trial as they’d thought it would be. Diarmuid’s mate had growled a warning as they moved closer, but Diarmuid had frowned and made a series of noises that sounded quite like a scolding. To their utter astonishment, the large merrow’s expression had gone sheepish, and he’d allowed them to take their notes and photos.

Once they were done, Diarmuid clapped. He rifled through Ciaran’s pockets once more and found another handful of grapes. He tapped his mate’s cheek. The large merrow obediently opened his mouth to let his little mate place a grape onto his tongue and then, once Diarmuid pulled his hand back with an expectant expression, snapped his mouth shut with an audible _snap_ of large, sharp teeth, and swallowed.

Rua asked, “Did he even taste the damn thing?” An excellent question. Ciaran had fed Diarmuid grapes since he was small and one or two had filled his little tummy. They’d continued being a favorite treat as he matured. But this merrow of Diarmuid’s—the grape had looked about the size of pearl next to him. It had to be a bit like eating a seed or a kernel. And his teeth were so much sharper than Diarmuid’s; the creature was obviously more used to hunting and consuming fresh meat than he was foraging for fruit and other vegetation.

Nevertheless, the large merrow did not look displeased. Diarmuid clapped again and let out a series of joyous trills. He fed his mate a few more grapes, absolutely beaming, and nuzzled against him. A large arm, rippling with muscle, reached into the boat so that the clawed hand attached to it could gently stroke Diarmuid’s back.

His entire hand was twice the size of Diarmuid’s head.

But Diarmuid only crooned and trilled. The large merrow rumbled with contentment as his much smaller mate kissed along his neck, near the gills.

Ciaran scratched his head, bemused. “You’ve certainly got him wrapped around your little finger, don’t you, Diarmuid?”

Diarmuid gave him a knowing smile.

* * *

“We can call him David. Like, David and Goliath,” Cathal offered.

Rua scoffed. “Goliath was the big one.”

“Yeah, I know. He’s big, but we don’t know if he’s the biggest. There could be a Goliath out there.”

A merrow larger than Diarmuid’s mate—from a researcher’s standpoint, utterly fascinating. From the view of a swimmer, terrifying.

But it was a good name. David and Diarmuid, Diarmuid and David. Ciaran said, “It fits him.”

“We ought to tag him, too, you think?” Rua asked.

Ciaran said, “Let’s give it a try.”

Diarmuid realized what they wanted to do and turned to his mate with a flurry of chatter. He pointed animatedly from his own tail to David’s. His mate stared at him with raised eyebrows. Somehow grapes were involved in the argument: Diarmuid tossed a few more into his mouth and pointed at the three of them.

Finally, David growled an affirmation and coiled his tail back inside the boat.

Rua clipped the tag on—the merrow didn’t flinch, not even the smallest twitch—and ran back to the center of the boat. Diarmuid trilled and proceeded once more to cover his mate’s face in very readily accepted kisses.

_Well, now_ , Ciaran mused, _isn’t that something_. Diarmuid’s treats were grapes. David, on the other hand, seemed to prefer kisses. Intriguing, how these merrows differed from one another. He smiled as Diarmuid hummed and David rumbled in contentment.

* * *

Hours later, long after hugging Diarmuid goodbye, Ciaran watched the route the two merrows were taking.

It was as he’d expected.

They were swimming together, side-by-side, so close that they were almost one, deep into the heart of the sea.


	2. The New Arrival

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diarmuid spends a bit of time with his favorite human before meeting the newly arrived merrow in the aquarium.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick fic. 
> 
> My own foray into the Discord's small merm canon. Featuring researcher Ciaran et al., tiny merms, and grapes.

It’s morning when the sun rises, and Diarmuid always wakes with the sun, but humans are big and silly and different, so even when the sun is out they’re not always really awake. All of the merrow’s humans drink _coffee_ , which is nasty and bitter. He had a sip once, a little pipette drop, and it had smelled so yummy and nutty and _good_ , and he’d been so excited to taste it but the moment the liquid had hit his tongue— _yuck!_ Diarmuid had scrunched his up his nose and spluttered and Rua had laughed. But Ciaran had scolded the younger researcher something fierce, and then Diarmuid had gotten an extra grape with his breakfast, so it had been worth it.

The clock on the wall _tick tick ticks_. It’s almost time for when Ciaran arrives. Diarmuid can’t wait. He’s always excited to see Ciaran—his big, older, gray-haired human who’s always taken such good care of him since he was a guppy. Even though he’s too big to fit in his palm anymore Diarmuid always makes sure the human knows how much he loves and appreciates him by nuzzling and kissing and hugging his fingers.

Today, though, he’s going to play a trick on Ciaran. Instead of swimming right up to the surface to greet him, Diarmuid’s going to hide. And then, when Ciaran has looked all around the entire tank, scratching his head, brows furrowed in confusion— _SURPRISE_! Diarmuid will pop out! And Ciaran will be so shocked and pleased to see him and also extremely impressed with how well the merrow can camouflage himself.

At the sound of the researcher’s familiar, heavy footsteps Diarmuid quickly swims to the ferns and curls up among their leaves.

Ciaran whistles as he walks, his lab coat swishing as he strides into the room. He has a cup of coffee in one hand. He peers into the tank. “Diarmuid, I have an important task for you today. Diarmuid?”

The man’s eyes slowly rove the tank, from the filter to the snail stuck to one side of the wall to the chunk of driftwood that’s a perfect place to rest. For one moment his gaze seems to stop on Diarmuid hiding in the ferns, but then, to the little merrow’s glee, passes right over him. He shoves his hands to his mouth to stifle his laughter.

The researcher straightens up. There’s an odd expression on his face that Diarmuid can’t quite place but another human might identify as someone biting the inside of their cheek to hide a smile. “Ah, now, where’s he gotten to? And here I brought all these treats just for him.” He shrugs. “Maybe I’ll just eat them myself.” Ciaran reaches into his coat pocket and then holds aloft, between thumb and forefinger, a bright, shiny red grape.

**_WHAT_** _._ Diarmuid gasps.

The little merrow scurries out of his hiding place and swims to the top of the tank. He breaches the water, chirping with alarm. Treats! Those are _his_ treats, those are his _favorite_ —

Ciaran chuckles. “There he is. What were you doing, Diarmuid? Playing a trick on me?” The man hands a grape to Diarmuid, who takes it in his clawed hands and immediately gobbles it down. Diarmuid licks the juice from his fingers and stares expectantly at the man. _Treats_ , the researcher had said, as in, _more than one._

“Oh-ho! Should I even give you another, with how naughty you’ve been?” He smiles at Diarmuid’s pout and hands him another grape. “We’re going to try something different today. Would you like a new friend? There’s an injured merrow who needs someone to look out for him.”

Diarmuid muses on the suggestion. He chews thoughtfully on the grape, this time relishing in its sweetness. He already has many friends. All the researchers, of course. Ciaran and Cathal and Rua. And the visitors—all the humans who watch him in his tank as he swims and preens and dances for them. They like his dances, and the young ones especially like when he smiles and waves. There’s his friends in the tank as well. The snail and the tiny little guppies, smaller than even him, flitting about the water. But a _merrow_ friend—he doesn’t have any of those.

Not yet, at least.

He trills to let Ciaran know that he agrees—that he’d like a new friend—and is rewarded with a smile and a gentle pat on the head. Diarmuid grabs Ciaran’s hand before he moves away and nuzzles his cheek against the man’s palm. “Ah, there’s my sweet boy,” the researcher murmurs, “I think you’ll be good for him.”

Who’s this _him_ , Diarmuid wonders, this injured merrow? What’s he like? Where did he come from? Is he hurt very badly? He’ll do his best to care for him. Then the merrow can get better, and they’ll be able to swim and dance together.

* * *

Cathal is an anxious human. He nervously follows Ciaran as the head researcher carefully carries Diarmuid in a jar of seawater. Diarmuid only half listens to their conversation, taken as he is with the aquarium passing around them. Coral and kelp and schools of bright fish swimming to and fro, drifting groups of translucent jellyfish, crabs scuttling on sand at the bottom of the tanks, and two octopi who appear to be trying to escape their habitat—that’s a bit alarming, actually. Diarmuid cranes his head to watch them try to lift the lid of their tank as Ciaran continues walking.

“Are you sure it’ll be alright?” Cathal asks, “If the other merrow gets violent will Diarmuid know how to defend himself?”

Ciaran replies, “He won’t hurt Diarmuid. He’s just frightened. It must be quite a shock to go from the ocean to an aquarium. But Diarmuid’s gentle and patient, and I’ve no doubt he’ll show the other merrow that we mean no harm to him.” Diarmuid preens in the jar, pleased at the compliments. The researcher notices. He chuckles. “Ah, and very humble too, aren’t you, Diarmuid?”

It’s not something he’s thought much about before, but after a few seconds pondering Ciaran’s words Diarmuid chirps in agreement, nodding sagely. Yes, he is indeed quite humble.

The new tank is larger than his old one—of course it must be, because it’ll be holding _two_ merrows—and is absolutely filled with rich, verdant greens. Diarmuid presses his hands against the jar. There are plants _everywhere_. So many new places to hide! And rocks to build a new nest, and a little castle structure to swim in and out of! He wiggles impatiently in the jar, eager to meet his new friend and to explore the tank with him.

“Here we are, Diarmuid,” Ciaran says. The researcher unscrews the lid gently lowers the jar into the tank so that the merrow can swim out. Diarmuid trills in delight.

What a lovely place! The water temperature is perfect, and it’s so pretty and green—he brushes against the ferns and giggles—and perhaps there’s room for his snail in here as well, if the other merrow doesn’t object.

Speaking of, where is the other merrow? Diarmuid glances around. “Hello?” he calls. “Hello? Where are you?”

There’s no answer. Frowning, Diarmuid sifts through the fauna and scrutinizes the driftwood. Ciaran said he was hurt. Perhaps he’s resting? But Diarmuid still has to know where he is, so he can take care of him if he needs help. He calls out again, “I’m Diarmuid! I’m here to be your friend!”

There’s a flash of movement from the corner of the tank. What Diarmuid took as another piece of driftwood is actually a small version of a wooden currach, like the humans use because they haven’t any fins or tail to get into the water—silly creatures! The currach’s turned upside down, but Diarmuid can see the hint of eyes and a tail underneath it.

The merrow!

He swims to the currach, hands pressed to his chest. “There you are! What are you doing under there? I’m Diarmuid!” he says again. “They said you were hurt—let me take care of you?”

The currach returns right side up as a powerful tail flips it over. It stirs up a cloud of sand. When it clears, the other merrow is in front of him, tall and tense and watching him with dark, dark eyes.

Most other merrows are bigger than Diarmuid, but this one’s _broader_ too, all thick muscle. He’s littered in old scars and new cuts. Some from fighting. Diarmuid recognizes the teeth and scratch marks. There’s an old scar around his neck that looks like it was _deep_. There’s similar but fresher wounds on his fins and body. His tail is ripped, and there’s a red, angry cut along his torso that looks like—yes, Diarmuid’s sure of it. Fishing hooks. The injury looks sore, but the merrow doesn’t seem to notice it now.

His expression is wary but not threatening, and there’s something else there, too—a tentative kind of interest that has Diarmuid blushing and feeling very silly.

The smaller merrow fidgets under his gaze. “It looks like you can take care of yourself,” he says, shyly, looking up at the larger merrow through his lashes, “But, I can still be your friend, if you’d like.”

The other merrow’s turned as pink as Diarmuid. His lower jaw is covered with a black beard, curly and dark like the hair on his head, but his neck flushes, as does, most interestingly, his chest. Diarmuid’s eyes flit to his torso and back to his companion’s face. The look of interest hasn’t waned.

“We could—explore the tank,” Diarmuid offers, “There’s a lot of places to hide, and rest. And I can check on your cut. Just to be sure it’s okay.” With a bit of boldness that surprises the both of them, Diarmuid gently reaches out and brushes his fingers along the other merrow’s chest, just a little above the still-healing injury, near the pectoral.

His companion gives him an eager nod. Diarmuid smiles and holds out his hand and the silent merrow takes it, his hand pleasantly rough.

“Okay,” Diarmuid says, happily, “Let’s go.”

* * *

Hours later, Rua glances at the merrow couple, lounging together in the currach at the bottom of the tank.

Diarmuid appears quite comfortable wrapped in the new arrival’s arms. “Well, they’re certainly getting along. Was that the outcome you expected, Ciaran?”

The older researcher looks flummoxed. “Certainly not. Not that it’s, er, a bad thing, but I—I just thought Diarmuid would be—a kind of welcoming party, I suppose. He’s sweet-natured creature.”

“Oh, I’m sure that merrow’s gotten a fine welcome,” Rua replies, smirking at Ciaran’s noise of outrage, “It was about time Diarmuid found a mate, anyway.”

Both researchers turn back to the tank. The other merrow is watching Diarmuid, snuggled against him, with an awed expression—like he can’t quite believe his luck.

“Well,” Ciaran grumbles, “As long as they’re happy.”

Diarmuid presses a kiss to his mate’s cheek and smiles.


	3. The Selkie On the Shore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David's besotted with a selkie who likes to sunbathe near his cottage. He misinterprets some (terrible) advice from the local fishermen and decides to prove his worth to his prospective love by bringing him to orgasm as many times as he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost pure smut, and no lube or preparation because of ~magic selkie anatomy~ and definitely not because I didn't feel like writing that part tonight.

There was a selkie that liked to strip himself of his sealskin and sunbathe on the beach near David’s cottage.

He couldn’t help but just watch him. David had known, in an abstract, idle way, that selkies were lovely creatures. They hadn’t been familiar to him at first, him being new to this land and its people, but all the stories the other fishermen told, described a wild, almost feral kind of beauty. He understood this in the same way one read about wondrous things—comprehending but not completely understanding.

It was one thing to read about the ocean, for example, to see a photo in a book, and quite another thing entirely to hear the waves rustle across the sand, to breathe in the sharp scent of seawater on the air, to look around and find see nothing but tide, shimmering in the sunlight.

And it was one thing to have heard about selkies and how bewitching, how entrancing they were, and quite another have one stretch and squirm and sigh on the sand, completely nude, creamy white skin dotted with freckles, dark hair curly and mussed, pink, moist lips curled into a satisfied smile as he dozed on his sealskin.

The most beautiful being in the entire world—and every day he chose to take in the sun’s rays a short walk away from where David slept.

David adored him. He wanted nothing more than to touch him, to kiss him, to see him smile, to hear him laugh. But how did one court a selkie? David was still a stranger to the area. He hadn’t even ever _heard_ of selkies until the fishermen started speaking of them, whiling away the long days with half-true stories and old memories. They’d know, surely, and he had to ask them, as the lovely creature down by the shore seemed to be growing dissatisfied with his sunbathing spot. As each day passed he looked a little more—David didn’t know what, exactly— but something like impatient, disappointed. Sometimes as he stretched he glanced over his shoulder at David, an inscrutable expression on his face, before settling down to soak in the sun.

He was always welcome on the beach. He would be welcome in the little seaside cottage. But David needed to know how to make him _want_ to stay.

* * *

Most of the tales the other fisherman told were of lovers who stayed for one single night of pure ecstasy before diving back into the sea come morning.

“How do you get a selkie to stay with you?” he asked. “Is that possible?”

The men exchanged glances. “Well,” said one, “It used to be you’d steal their coat—their sealskin. But they’ll only stay so long as you hide it. Once they find it and put it back on they leave forever.”

David frowned. “That’s not much of a marriage.”

Another man scoffed. “Who’s talking marriage? You asked how to get the selkie to stay. You don’t want to steal the coat? Then just take the selkie. Show ‘em who’s in charge, so they never think to leave.”

“That’s a fucking terrible idea,” someone muttered. “Jesus. You can’t be serious.”

But David thought it had merit. To show the lovely selkie who was in charge so he would never leave—yes, David would throw himself at his feet and beg him to let him touch him, to show him how good a lover he would be, how wonderful a husband. The sea would no doubt call to him time to time, but if David showered him with love and affection then when he needed a place to rest it’d be by David’s side, nestled together with him in their bed.

* * *

The next morning the selkie was there, as usual. He laid on his sealskin coat, one arm above his head and his other hand resting on his belly.

He looked like an angel.

David paced by his window, a bundle of nerves. Today, he’d finally talk to the selkie today, but— Would he be irritable if David woke him up? Frightened by his intentions? Or maybe—maybe disgusted by him.

But if he didn’t take the chance, and the selkie left for good he’d be wondering for the rest of his life about what might have been.

Better to just try, David decided, and if he didn’t want anything to do with him, he’d leave him be.

He walked out onto the beach barefoot, the sand between his toes and his heart in his mouth. David approached with as much confidence as he could fake, hoping that the selkie would hear his steps and greet him. But instead he stayed asleep in the sun, looking like an artist’s model, naked and lovely, chest slowly rising and falling.

David swallowed. As he approached the selkie he knelt down so that he could reach out and touch him, if it was amenable.

The selkie stirred as the sand shifted underneath David’s feet. His big, brown eyes fluttered open and he peered up at David through long, dark lashes.

He smiled, warm and inviting.

David said, “H-hello.” He held his hands aloft and then, after a moment, gently ran them along the selkie’s hips. “I wanted to—to, uh.” Suddenly his mouth seemed dry and his tongue far too heavy and clumsy to speak. He sighed and looked above at the clear blue sky then back to the puzzled object of his affections.

The selkie gave a quizzical tilt of his head, his brows furrowed, the beginning of a pout forming on his lips.

Shit, this wasn’t going well. This gorgeous young selkie man could have anyone—anyone at all—and if David wanted to make him his husband he had to be confident. To convince him that it would be _David_ that could satisfy his every need, especially his pleasure.

He gave the selkie’s hips a small squeeze. The gorgeous creature gave a happy little sound. It was all the encouragement David needed.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, and his companion was smiling once more. “I’ve watched you. Every day. Did you—notice me?”

An eager expression spread across the selkie’s face.

David let out a small laugh of relief. “Okay. Okay, good. I’d like for you to—be my husband? If you’d like. I can prove myself. If you’d let me.”

The bemused look returned to his companion’s pretty face. He shifted up onto his elbows. Panic coursed through David’s body with every beat of his heart. God, the selkie was interested but he still needed to show he’d make a fine husband for him. That he’d take care of him. “Like this,“ he said, wrapping his fingers around his companion’s cock, “I can make you feel good. I know I can.” He gave the shaft a few experimental pumps for emphasis. It swelled in his hands, hot and hard.

“ _Ah_!” It was the first noise he’d heard the selkie make and it was absolutely divine. A shocked, delighted cry of pleasure as he fell backward onto the sand, biting his lip as David continued to stroke him. His moans went straight to David’s groin, had him hard and straining in his pants, but all he focused on was the gorgeous selkie’s equally gorgeous moans and his pretty, pink cock. It fit so well in his hand, like it was meant to be there. When a bead of precum leaked from the tip David smeared it with his thumb and continued pumping the selkie’s shaft in his fist, eager to see his release.

The selkie’s breath hitched. His toes curled in the sand. His fingers scrabbled at his sealskin. _Close_ , David thought, delighted, _he’s close_.

And he was right. Not a moment later did the selkie moan and tense in his grip, coating David’s fingers with hot, slick spend. His hands left the sealskin and he reached for David with a sigh. David wiped his hand on his pant leg and interlaced his fingers with the selkie’s.

“Did you like that?” he asked.

Another small sigh escaped the selkie’s lips. He gave a little nod, his dark curls bouncing with the movement. “ _Mm_.” The sound was a purr.

David fought the urge to preen. That’d just been a hand job. Any one could have given the selkie _that_ —though, the thought of another man touching the pretty selkie in front of him made David want to break hypothetical fingers. He shook his head. No, he had to show his companion that David could satisfy all his wants, all his desires. He gently let go of the selkie’s hands and lowered himself onto his elbows, right over the selkie’s spent cock.

He asked, “Can I give you more? Can I put my mouth on you?”

The selkie’s dark eyes widened and he blushed but after a moment he nodded and settled back down onto the sand and his sealskin. His cock was already hardening once more.

Ah, so this was another difference between man and selkie: the latter needed less time to rest between sex. No wonder it was important for a human suitor to prove himself. David’s cock _ached_ but it would have to wait. He might not have had the ability to get it up as many times as a selkie, but David could demonstrate that he could still give him just as much pleasure with his hands and mouth in addition to his cock.

“Ready?” The selkie gave his hips an impatient wiggle and a little huff. David said, “Okay,” and swallowed him down.

God, he was delicious. The feeling of that pretty cock swelling on his tongue and he bobbed his head, the taste of salt from the sea and the selkie’s cum. And he thrust up into David’s mouth, crying out with need, as David determinedly tried to suck another orgasm from him. The soft thatch of dark hair between his legs brushing against his beard, the little noise that the selkie made when David pinned his hips down—so, so pretty. So perfect. He pulled off the selkie’s cock with a pop, just long enough to say, “In my mouth, sweetheart. Come in my mouth, so I can taste you.” He licked a stripe up the selkie’s cock, leaving a trail of shining spit, and then took him back into his mouth with a moan.

The selkie shivered and came with a gasp. He grabbed at David, fingers tangling in his messy hair, and _yanked_.

Oh, Christ. As David lapped up the selkie’s fresh cum, so hot, so salty, he freed his own cock from his pants with one hand and squeezed the base to keep from spilling right then and there. He couldn’t—not until he’d made his gorgeous lover come _again_. And—yeah, the selkie had noticed his hard, red, leaking cock and whined, spreading his legs wide and canting his hips up.

Jesus, he was already hard again. David gave a lopsided grin. Did all selkies' spouses get this—just stunning, eager lovers always ready to be touched? What a life. “Can I fuck you? Look how hard you got me.” The selkie’s eyes took in his throbbing shaft. His pupils were as black like the night sky. “One more? Let me keep making you feel good.”

The selkie bit his lip and frantically nodded. David pulled off his shirt and tossed it aside, then his pants. He eased his cock past the selkie’s pink, puckered rim, groaning at the tight, wet heat that enveloped him. Christ. No wonder—no wonder all the stories about lost selkie lovers were filled with such longing. Who could ever want anything else after this?

When David was fully sheathed inside the selkie, his balls against his tight little hole, his lover reached his hands out—an invitation for an embrace that David gladly took. He crawled over top of him, palms on either side of his head, and lowered himself down so that the selkie could wrap his arms around his back. The selkie’s lips were parted, his lips so pink, so sweet and delicate looking. David kissed him just as he rocked his hips into an experimental thrust.

“Like this,” David panted as he began to frantically rut into him, “Every day. I can give you this.” The selkie’s legs tightened around his waist. His lips found David’s neck and he nipped and licked and sucked at his throat. He whimpered when David pulled out and keened when he thrust back in.

Then his delicious sounds became something else. David nearly missed it, he was so focused on thrusting his aching cock as deep as he possibly could into his pretty little lover, but luckily the selkie had begun a dazed chant. “Yes,” he murmured, “Oh, yes, yes, _yes_.”

A sweet voice, low with lust. The first words he’d ever heard from the selkie. David nearly stopped, surprised, but his hips had a mind of their own, now, and he continued fucking even as he asked, “W-what?”

“Every day,” the selkie moaned, “Yes, I want this every day. Fuck me, please. _Ah_! Yes, yes, please, keep fucking me. Take me— _take me_ —”

Holy fuck, he’d actually done it. He’d shown the selkie exactly what he’d give him, and he’d accepted. A life of pleasure, of adoration, of love. Every day—David fucked him now with an animalistic fervor, eager to come, to make him truly _his_ —every day they’d be together. Every day David would get to touch him, to kiss him, to fuck him like this, to worship his body.

This time when the selkie came David could feel him clenching around his cock as he trembled, sensitive from yet another orgasm.

That was David’s doing—exhausting his lover with pleasure. His hands, his mouth, his _cock_ all had brought this gorgeous creature to his peak. The sounds of the selkie’s mewls, his shivering body slick with sweat, the slow pulse of his cock as he spilled between them for the final time—

David came inside him with a ragged moan, determined to fill him up, eager to watch his cum leak out of him. The selkie gasped at each fresh burst. He mumbled, “Oh, it’s _so hot_ inside me…” and David couldn’t get any harder but he could give one final, deep thrust inside, savoring the selkie’s resulting cry, before he was completely spent.

He collapsed on top of his lover, empty and exhausted thoroughly pleased with himself. He’d wrung three orgasms from the selkie and gotten him to agree to be his _husband_. And what a heavenly, husbandly duty—to be able to pleasure him _every day_ , to keep him flushed and keening with his mouth and his hands and his cock.

His lovely spouse mumbled something against his shoulder.

David kissed his curls and smiled. “I'm sorry, sweetheart, I didn’t catch that.”

“My name is Diarmuid,” the selkie murmured.

 _Diarmuid_. A beautiful name. He brought his mouth to Diarmuid’s to taste any lingering sweetness of his voice left on his lips. “It’s nice to meet you,” he replied, huffing a laugh, and his husband giggled. “I’m David.”

“David, I like that. I like your name. I thought you didn’t like _me_. I waited for you. I laid out on my sealskin so you could see it—they told me men take it, if they really want you.”

“I—heard about that. But I didn’t want to force you. I wanted to prove I could make you happy. So you’d stay.”

Diarmuid purred. “Oh, I’ll stay. I _like_ you. I liked you before fucked me and I like you _more_ now. Can we do that every day? With your cock, or your mouth.” Then, a little shyly, he added, “I like your lips. I like it when you kiss me, too.”

Oh, Jesus. Somehow he’d managed to grab hold of an entire lifetime of bliss. David gave him another kiss—heart full to bursting when Diarmuid made a tiny, happy, satisfied noise and nuzzled against him—and shifted to wrap the sealskin around his shoulders. He lifted him into his arms and carried him to their cottage and over the threshold.

* * *

They’d spent the rest of the day together, and the next, exploring one another’s body and laughing and whispering to each other. But David _did_ still have a job, and so on the third morning he woke up, ate breakfast with Diarmuid, kissed him goodbye and made his way down to the docks.

It wasn’t the most backbreaking labor he’d ever done, working with the fishermen, but sometimes it did still get quite hot even near the salt-spray of the sea. After a few hours David wiped his brow and tossed his shirt aside before returning to moving crates.

“Lord, David, you go after that selkie after all?”

He turned to find some of the men staring at him. Hell, he’d forgotten the scratches and bites—when they’d spent their first night together as husband and husband, Diarmuid had wailed as David pounded into him, raking his nails along his back and biting at his shoulders. A wonderful sting.

But he didn’t quite want to tell all that to these men he worked alongside. So he said, “Uh, yeah. I did. It, uh. Worked out.”

One of the men grinned. “Yeah? He put up quite the fight, I see.”

David wasn’t quite sure what he meant by that. “Fight?” he asked.

Now everyone else seemed to be just as confused. “You had to get him into your house somehow, right?”

What the Hell—what was this guy implying? “No, I—what? Why would I fight with—I did what you said. I showed him that he’d be happy with me. So that he wanted to stay.”

A few of the fishermen still stared, uncomprehending, but a few went red and awkwardly cleared their throats as their eyes flitted from the bites to the scratches.

“Wait, so you just—“

“ _David_!”

All eyes turned to that sweet, melodic voice. There was Diarmuid waving at him as he ran down the docks wearing one of David’s long coats.

The coat went down to his calves but was only buttoned to his thighs, and from the skin was revealed with every step David could tell he wasn’t wearing anything underneath it.

They were still working on the practice of wearing clothes.

The wind was blowing around the docks, rustling hair and caps and now the bottom of Diarmuid’s coat, revealing quite a bit of his freckled legs. David grabbed hold of his waist and held the surplus cloth in his hands to stop it from showing any particularly intimate parts of his husband to the rest of the fishermen.

Diarmuid stood on his tiptoes and kissed his nose. “David! I missed you! So I came to visit.”

“Thank you, Diarmuid,” he said, “That’s sweet.” He gave an expectant looking Diarmuid a kiss on the lips.

“When will you be done with work?” his husband asked.

David replied, “Still a few hours to go, Diarmuid, I’m sorry.”

“ _Hours?_ ” The selkie’s face fell. He smiled a little as David pressed an apologetic kiss to his cheek. “I’ll wait, then,” Diarmuid murmured.

One of the fishermen called, “David, what are you doing? Go take your husband home! It’s your honeymoon! Go on, it’s fine.”

A honeymoon. He hadn’t thought about that. He’d been too caught up in actually earning Diarmuid’s affection to even think about it. But his husband deserved a honeymoon. “Yeah, okay.” He took Diarmuid’s hand and kissed his wrist. “Let’s go home? We can spend some more time alone together for a bit longer. But eventually I _will_ have to go to work.”

Diarmuid gave him a brilliant smile. “Yes, yes! Of course, David. I’ll be ready, then. But right now I’ll have you all to myself.”

As they walked hand-in-hand through the stunned group of fishermen and off the docks David thought, _a honeymoon._

Really, though, every day with Diarmuid was going to be a honeymoon. He kissed the top of his husband’s head.

What a life.


	4. To Name a Merrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Upon Ciaran's suggestion, Diarmuid decides to give his mate a name. The two merrow spend a very pleasurable day together as he ponders over the task at hand.
> 
> This chapter is explicit and includes: mentioned somnophilia, blowjobs, handjobs, and 69ing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back at it with a quick, slightly out-of-season merm chapter. 
> 
> A continuation of my merm AU from Even In Another Time, but can be read as a standalone! All you really need to know is that Diarmuid and the Mute are merrows, mates, and can walk on land with human legs, that Ciaran is Diarmuid's adoptive father, and that the Mute is still getting used to human culture and behavior.
> 
> Credit to America's Test Kitchen for the vaguely described apple skillet pie recipe.

“You can’t keep calling him the Mute,” Ciaran tells him, “It’s not proper.”

Diarmuid didn't argue. There were some things that didn’t quite translate from merrow to human and names were one of them. If he’d stayed in the sea Diarmuid would never have been called Diarmuid. He wouldn’t have been called any name at all—the other merrows would have known him by his voice and his scent. _Child_ to his parents, when they’d been alive, and _mate_ to the Mute, had he been able to speak.

 _The Mute_ is a descriptor like any other; his mate preens when Diarmuid says it the same as he does when Diarmuid croons _darling_ and _my love_. His grasp of the human language is impressive but still not quite fluent, and yet he always knows when Diarmuid is speaking about him, recognizes terms of endearment with a smile.

Diarmuid supposes, though, that it's difficult for Ciaran to talk about his son’s new husband when said husband does not have a human name. He resolves to spend a day trying to come up with one that fits.

* * *

When Diarmuid wakes it’s to the birds singing, the sunlight streaming through his window, and the Mute, snoring beside him.

That’s unusual. Now Diarmuid’s often awakened by frantic, desperate kisses, his mate whimpering softly for his touch. The other merrow can’t seem to get enough of him. More than once Diarmuid’s eyes have fluttered open to find the Mute nipping at his neck, fingers clenched in the bed sheets, already rocking inside him, groaning as quietly as he possibly could. They’d had a discussion, lover to lover, about sex. Diarmuid always enjoyed their early morning romps, and he especially loved it when the Mute fucked him awake, but Ciaran, who was only a few rooms away, would most definitely _not_ appreciate learning about the proclivities of their sex life and so when he was home they had to be _quiet_. His mate accepted it without even a little bit of grumbling—perhaps because it meant that they could still have sex as often as he pleased so long as they were careful—and Diarmuid could enjoy the low noises that escape the Mute’s throat as he groans through gritted teeth.

But this morning the other merrow rests peacefully against the pillows. Diarmuid can see the hints of his pointed teeth as he exhales. He brushes the back of his knuckles against the Mute’s throat, where the gills would be if they were in the water, and is pleased when his mate gives a little shiver—it’s a sensitive area for merrows, even in human form, and doubly so for the Mute, who is still getting used to his new body.

He’s sensitive in another area, too. Diarmuid props himself up with one hand, chin in his palm, and with the other reaches for the Mute’s cock, only slightly hidden under the thin sheets. A firm squeeze and a few experimental pumps of the shaft has the other merrow’s snores interrupted by a groan; it makes Diarmuid smile. He watches his mate’s face grow more flushed by the second, feels his cock grow harder in his grip with every twist and brush of his fingers. When Diarmuid idly swipes his thumb along the head, spreading the precum that’s collected there, the Mute shudders awake with a gasp. His dark eyes, still a bit bleary with sleep and nearly black with arousal, land on him. The surprise turns into a joyful smile—the same expression Diarmuid always receives when the Mute returns from the shallows to find him waiting for him on the beach—as if he wasn’t expecting Diarmuid to still be there in the bed come dawn.

As if he’d be anywhere else, Diarmuid thinks, fondly. As if there’d be anyone else but his mate, here, all broad muscle and scars and big, rough, gentle hands and sharp, sharp teeth that nibble on his neck and inner thighs with such care and such desire.

“Good morning.” Diarmuid leans forward to press a kiss to the Mute’s waiting, welcoming lips, swallowing the low moan his mate makes as his strokes become faster. “Remember—you have to be quiet,” Diarmuid murmurs with a twist of his palm, “It’s still early.”

The Mute bites his lip and nods. His eyes roll up to the ceiling. The blankets shift as he spreads his legs to give Diarmuid easier access to his cock. It’s so hot underneath his fingers, so hard and so lovely—beautiful, like the rest of him. The Mute reaches out to run a trembling hand from Diarmuid’s shoulder to his arm and then drops it to the sheets.

What’s a name that will fit him? Diarmuid wonders as the Mute writhes happily against the bed. What to call his mate, his partner, his companion in life? John? Too plain, perhaps. Joseph? Samuel? No, none of those seem quite right. Especially not now, in this moment, as he brings the Mute closer and closer to climax. Diarmuid knows exactly what to say to the other merrow, panting and staring at him with ecstasy and adoration.

Diarmuid says, “Go on, my love. Go ahead.”

As if on command the Mute tenses. He thrusts and spills into Diarmuid’s hand, breath hitched, gasping into the pillow. One hand flies to his mouth, muffling his moans as his body shakes through his orgasm. Diarmuid watches, fascinated, as the Mute shivers and whines, his face and neck and chest flushed, a light sheen of sweat beading on his skin.

After idly licking his mate’s spend off his fingers—warm and salty, like the sea—Diarmuid crawls forward for another kiss. “Good morning,” he says again, giving the Mute a peck on the cheek, “Did you sleep well?”

Chest still heaving, the Mute grins and nods and pulls him close so that Diarmuid’s straddling him and their foreheads touch.

“Me too,” Diarmuid replies, smiling. “I always sleep well next to you. Now, let’s get ready for breakfast, hmm?”

At that his mate frowns and reaches under Diarmuid’s sleep shirt to palm at his hard cock. He tilts his head to the side, staring up at him with a quizzical, pleading expression.

Diarmuid worries at his lower lip. It would nice, but… He glances the carefully shut bedroom door, at the bright sun shining through the window, and then down to the other merrow’s face.

Well, what could it hurt if they’re both quick and quiet about it? He says, “Okay,” and then stifles a yelp as the Mute moves, quick as lightning, and eagerly swallows him down all the way to the root. He claps one hand to his mouth and one hand to his mate’s hair as the Mute happily goes about sucking the cum out of him with a hot, wet mouth and a strong, skillful tongue.

It doesn’t take long. His mate knows what he likes, what touches make him gasp behind his palm, where to lick to have him canting his hips up to thrust into the Mute’s mouth. Diarmuid allows himself a little gasp, a tiny hitch in his breath that gets caught in his throat, as he throws his head back against the pillows and comes down his mate’s throat.

The Mute swallows every drop easily and eagerly. He laps at Diarmuid’s softening cock until Diarmuid makes a small noise of protest—he’s over stimulated and sensitive. The other merrow is unperturbed. He merely switches from sucking on Diarmuid’s cock to sucking at his neck. When he pulls away his face is flushed, his eyes dark and wanting, but his smile is warm, content. The Mute presses his massive, rough hand against Diarmuid’s chest, right where his heart is beating.

“I love you, too,” Diarmuid murmurs. “Now, come on. Let’s get up.”

* * *

Once they are both fresh and clean and thoroughly sated Diarmuid makes his way to the kitchen and the Mute leaves the cottage with a kiss and a growl that promises more fun later in the day. His diet is still made up of mainly fish and other aquatic life. And, occasionally, fruit pies. Blueberry seems to be his favorite, but the Mute has shown a particular fondness for apple as well.

Perhaps because Diarmuid also likes apples. They’re good for a variety of dishes, breakfast, lunch, and dinner, can be turned into juice or cider, are yummy to munch just by themselves. He chooses apples for this morning’s meal.

It’s just a quick breakfast. Oats cooked in apple cider with diced sweet red apples—skin still on—with a dash of cinnamon, a few spoonfuls of brown sugar, and a bit of butter thrown in. But it’s tasty, and filling, and if Ciaran heard them in their bedroom then it’ll be a decent apology and if not then he’ll just be appreciative.

It smells like home. Their orchard is always ripe with some fruit, their cottage always cozy and with a stove that seems to be in perpetual use, filling the house with warmth and scrumptious scents, sweet or savory.

His father wanders into the kitchen with a yawn. Diarmuid hands him a cup of coffee and pushes a bowl of warm, sweet oatmeal to his place at the table.

“Did you sleep well?” he carefully asks Ciaran.

The man raises an eyebrow as he sips at his coffee. “A very blessed night of uninterrupted sleep.” He clears his throat.

Diarmuid smiles. “That’s good.” He does his best to be respectful. “By the way, I’ve given your suggestion some thought.”

“Oh? Have you thought of any names?”

“I just don’t know. What makes a good name? How did you name me?”

“There was a king, one, named Diarmuid. _Without enemies_. That’s what your name means.” He pauses, lost in memories. “You were such a little thing. So hungry. I’m surprised you had the strength to walk all the way to the orchard. But you ate from every tree and every bush you could reach.” Ciaran chuckled. “I wanted a strong name for you. I thought it’d make you grow strong as well. And I was right! What a strapping young man you’ve become!” He pats Diarmuid’s arm and gives his muscle a light squeeze.

Diarmuid muses on this. “I want a good name for him, too. Something—he has not had an easy life. I want him to know that I love him.”

Ciaran’s expression softens. “No need to worry about that, Diarmuid. Anyone with eyes can see that you two adore each other.”

Even so. Diarmuid hums and refills his father’s cup as the man eats the oatmeal. “It’s very good, my dear,” Ciaran says. “Now, I’ll be going to the mainland for a few days. Have to head on over to the general store to offload a few crates of fruit—the apples, the pears, the raspberries—and then I’ll be seeing a woman about buying some of our jams and preserves. Tend to the orchard and the garden while I’m gone.”

It’s a tidy business that Ciaran’s made for himself. A one-man enterprise. And two merrow, now. Diarmuid kisses his graying head. “Be careful. But don’t work too hard.”

His father pats his hand. “Same to you, dear. You and that husband of yours. Work hard, but remember to enjoy yourselves.”

A weekend alone with the Mute. Diarmuid is very certain they will have a very enjoyable time indeed.

* * *

After Ciaran leaves for the mainland and the dishes are washed Diarmuid wanders out to the shore to see where his mate has gone.

He finds him standing knee-deep in the water, stripped to the waist, standing completely still, intently watching the sea foam and ripples.

Then his muscled arm darts underwater like a snake. When he lifts his hand back out there’s a fat fish wriggling in his fist. He moves to toss it into a large basket sitting on the shore, but spots Diarmuid and breaks out into a grin. The merrow clambers onto the beach—much more gracefully now, he’s become used to his legs—and Diarmuid rushes to meet him.

His mate proudly presents him with his catch.

There really isn’t anything like fresh caught fish. The salt taste of seawater along the skin and scales, and then the soft white flesh, meaty and yet slightly sweet.

The Mute always offers the first bite. It makes Diarmuid blush, how he provides for him. The face is the best, most sought after part; the fish cheeks full and fleshy, the eyes refreshing when they burst in the mouth. His mate always looks so pleased when he takes a bite and hums in pleasure at the taste, as if he is the one eating. It seems to satisfy him especially to see Diarmuid happy.

Diarmuid makes quick work of it. The bones he leaves with the shells on the sand, the blood and juices he licks from his fingers. Since mating he’s becoming more mischievous; aware of the Mute’s eyes on him, he moans a little and sucks on each and every digit, hollowing his cheeks, batting his eyes at his visibly aroused mate.

“We’re all alone for a few days,” Diarmuid murmurs. He begins to unbutton his shirt.

The other merrow’s face brightens. Barely a heartbeat passes before his pants are off and his hands are nimbly divesting Diarmuid of his own clothes. How is it that he always needs Diarmuid’s help to dress but can so quickly undress both himself and his mate? Sly creature.

When Diarmuid is naked, the sunlight warm on his skin, he gently directs the Mute onto his back, near where the sand and the grass meet. “Here, love,” he says. “Lay down.”

Diarmuid straddles him so that his back is to the Mute and then kneels down onto all fours. With no preamble he eagerly takes his mate’s cock in his mouth, licking and lapping at the shaft in the same way he’d teased the other merrow by sucking at his fingers.

A low moan rumbles from the Mute’s throat. His large, rough hands run along Diarmuid’s waist and spread his cheeks, a finger pressing against his rim.

But when Diarmuid tongues at the slit of his cock the Mute abruptly yanks his hips toward him. The hot puff of the Mute’s breath against his skin, the hot, wet, broad tongue lick at his entrance and make its way down to his balls, giving them a gentle suck, and then attending to Diarmuid’s cock bobbing between his legs.

He gives his hips a wiggle and the Mute growls a warning: Diarmuid is not to go anywhere. The other merrow’s licks become a little more aggressive. It makes Diarmuid laugh and gasp at the same time; he chuckles as he grips the Mute’s thick cock in his fist as best he can—his fingers don’t completely wrap around it—and gives it a few, stuttered pumps, jumping a little as his mate pulls his shaft into his mouth and sucks as though he has been starved of Diarmuid and is determined to wring every bit of taste from him.

The Mute’s cock is hard and hot in his hand and is leaking even as Diarmuid merely sighs and squirms above his mate’s body. But it is no real surprise—he takes most of his pleasure from Diarmuid’s pleasure, at the chance to touch and love and adore him.

It’s a bit of an uncomfortable angle in practice, and his mate is so intent on laving him with his tongue that Diarmuid has some trouble focusing on returning the favor. But he’s still of sound enough mind to continue stroking the Mute’s shaft and to give its head light, quick little licks. More teasing his cock than sucking it, but his mate doesn’t seem displeased. Every caress of Diarmuid’s tongue causes him to moan around Diarmuid’s member. The vibration of his throat is—it’s _good_. It makes Diarmuid shift his hips downward in an attempt to thrust down further into the hot, wet heat of the Mute’s mouth.

He gasps, “You’re going to make me come—” and his mate does nothing but continue to suck and lip and lap at him until Diarmuid is trembling above him, trying to keep from collapsing on top of the Mute while clumsily, frantically, pumping his cock as he presses sloppy kisses all along it—

“ _Ah_!” Diarmuid cries out, shivering through his orgasm. The Mute merely swallows his release down, drinking in greedy gulps. In the pleasurable haze Diarmuid feels him tensing and sees his hips begin to thrust up in a desperate attempt to reach his climax. Diarmuid gives himself a little shake and focuses on his mate’s enjoyment, stroking that thick, stiff shaft, all red with arousal, with a renewed, steady rhythm. He opens his mouth, about to bring it to his lips when— “ _Oh_!”

Diarmuid’s softening, dripping member hits the cool air as the Mute pulls off with heavy moan, his back arching, his cum splashing onto Diarmuid’s lips, parted in surprised, his flushed cheek, his sweaty hair, his bare shoulder. Ropes of the stuff, hot against his skin. “Goodness,” he murmurs when his mate finally lies still and spent on the sand.

Wiping his face, Diarmuid turns around, once again sucking the other merrow’s seed from his fingers. That’s twice now today that they’ve tasted one another.

With a grin, the Mute moves to grab his hips with his large, rough hands, intent on more pleasure—but they’ve had quite enough fun for the time being, and there’s work to be done. Diarmuid kisses his temple and clambers off of him.

“ _Mm_ , no more for now. We’ve got things to do.” With Ciaran gone for a few days the orchard is down one pair of hands. They need to be more disciplined. A hard day’s work for a night’s pleasure and love. Starting now.

* * *

By the end of the day the garden was weeded, another section of the orchard’s fruit harvested—muscadine grapes, figs, pomegranates, and another bushel of apples that’s just for them—the cottage spick-and-span, and dinner cooked. More of the Mute’s catch, this time fried in a pan—just olive oil and salt and pepper, nothing fancy. There was no need for anything else if the fish was fresh.

And Diarmuid was working on dessert. The other merrow was, in general, a great deal more carnivorous than he, but Diarmuid had found that the Mute still appreciated a fruit pie.

A skillet apple pie—a perfect way to end their meal.

“Come and help me bake?” Diarmuid asks. “I’m making a pie.” His mate’s help is warm hands around his waist, a broad chest pressed against his back, a strong, bearded jaw resting on top of his curls.

The Mute loves to help him bake.

His mate settles against him with a sigh of contentment and watches him prepare.

It’s a quick, easy recipe. Tried and true. Diarmuid melts butter in the skillet and then adds handful after handful of apple wedges, stirring them over the heat. Once they’re just beginning to caramelize he pours in a mixture of cider, maple syrup, brown sugar, a bit of lemon juice, cinnamon, and cornstarch, continuing to stir until the apples are coated, and then moves the skillet off to the side to cool. Next is the dough. It’s a bit difficult to shuffle to the counter top to roll it out—the Mute sticks to him like a limpet—but Diarmuid manages to make a decent circle and presses it on top of the apples. A bit of egg wash, a sprinkle of sugar, and then he vents the pie and places it in the oven.

One of the benefits of a skillet apple pie is the short baking period. By the time he and the Mute finish washing and drying the dishes the dessert is done and cooling on the countertop.

Which leaves one more task before the day is over.

He embraces the other merrow. His mate smells likes sweat and beach and dirt and dish soap. “I’m giving you a name,” Diarmuid murmurs against his neck. “You know that I adore you as you are, but we must give you a human name.”

The Mute makes a soft noise of agreement.

Diarmuid says, “I thought about it for a long time. I couldn’t decide. Nothing seemed to fit you—not all of you. Not everything you are. You’re strong, and handsome, and gentle, and clever.” The other merrow preens.

“But then I thought of it, the most important thing.” He kisses his mate’s cheek. “That you’re mine. So, you’ll be David. It means _beloved_. That fits you quite well, doesn’t it?”

David grins with his sharp, white and rumbles in agreement, deep and throaty in the way that always makes Diarmuid shiver with delight. His mate sweeps him into his arms and carries him away to the bedroom.

Diarmuid takes a glance at the pie cooling on the counter.

Thirty minutes or so and it should be ready to eat. They’ll certainly work up an appetite in the meantime.


	5. Summer at the Merrow Sanctuary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Features: Rua POV! Tiny merm Diarmuid and big merm David! First appearance of sleazemerm Raymond! Diarmuid in Distress!
> 
> A G-rated fic (with some mention of mates and eggs)
> 
> Rua muses on his job at the merrow sanctuary and the merrows there. There's Raymond, the bully of the pod, Diarmuid, tiny and sweet-natured, and David, the very large, very quiet newcomer who is recuperating in his own tank.
> 
> And then in the summer, mating season arrives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little fic idea I wanted to write today. Hope you enjoy!

It was pretty decent job, all things considered. In all his life Rua hadn’t ever expected to be working at a merrow sanctuary and when he’d first started he had never expected to actually _enjoy_ it—which he did. At least, for the most part. His boss, Ciaran, was a hell of a nice guy and managed everyone at the building, human or merrow, with a gentle understanding. His coworker, Cathal, was odd as fuck but a hard worker who knew just about as much as Ciaran about how everything ran. And while Rua had yet to get used to the scent of fish guts and tank cleaner—and probably never would so long as he lived—he had to admit that he liked taking care of his charges.

Honestly, the merrows had creeped him out at first. They were so very _human_ looking, and yet, so obviously not. Forget the shimmering scales and colorful tail and fins, forget the gills on their necks and the sharp, needlelike teeth in their mouths—Rua had seen them hiss and growl and claw at one another and other sanctuary employees not unlike angry cats, had watched them eat fish whole—bones and skin in all—had walked a little faster past the tanks where the more territorial merrows snarled and bared their fangs at him, then an unknown newcomer and potential threat.

Some of them still didn’t seem to like him very much. One, Raymond—large and rust-red and with a nasty scar over his eye from some prior fight—always _sneered_ when Rua came to check on the small pod of merrow. But then, Raymond was foul-tempered creature who was always intimidating the others in the tank.

“Is it an alpha male thing?” Rua once asked, watching Raymond bully another merrow into a corner to grab a larger share of fish.

Ciaran had sighed at the sight. “No, that’s not how merrow social structure works. He’s just an ill-mannered merrow, and I’ll have to separate him from the others when he acts like this, because it really is quite unacceptable.”

But the lesson never stuck because Raymond was always bullying _someone_ regardless of whether or not they had fins or legs.

“He threw a fish at me once,” Cathal idly recalled one day after feeding time, “I don’t think he thought it was up to snuff. He’d slashed the stomach open with his claws so that all the guts just exploded out of it when it smacked me right in the face. I could smell fish intestines for three whole days after that.”  
The thought made Rua gag. Feeding time was not his favorite task for that very reason—the smell of seafood had always made him queasy. Sure, they got only the freshest stuff for their merrows, so it wasn’t as bad as it could be, but dead fish would never be _pleasant_.

Luckily not all of the merrow ate just fish. Diarmuid, the sanctuary favorite, loved fruit. Especially grapes.

He was a tiny little thing. Most of the merrows were the size of the average adult human. Some were a bit bigger, some a bit smaller. But Diarmuid was roughly the length of Rua’s arm, with scales like a glittering mosaic of blue and long, delicate fins and tail like streaming ribbons. And he was a sweetheart, even Rua had to admit that. Visitors were always delighted at the sight of him flitting about the tank, waving and smiling and curiously watching the tour processions. The sanctuary’s employees loved to spend some time with Diarmuid, who was affectionate and cute as hell and chirped as he sought pets and grapes from their hands.

Rua sometimes felt like he was caring for a little prince. Sitting in the tide pool, bare feet underneath the water, alternatively handing Diarmuid a ripe red grape and a cooked shrimp. When he ate he closed his eyes and chewed and munched and made happy, satisfied noises that made Rua want to pinch his cheek.

Even the boss man was no match for those big brown eyes. Ciaran could deny it all he wanted, but Diarmuid was his favorite. The man had hand raised the little merrow from an egg and he was obviously if not more fond of Diarmuid than the others at the sanctuary, then fond of Diarmuid in an entirely different manner.

And Rua liked him, too, he really did, but if push came to shove he’d say that his favorite merrow was probably David.

Whereas Diarmuid was smaller than the average merrow, David was _larger_. Built like a brick shithouse, if Rua was being perfectly honest. Just a mass of muscle and sinew and skin that looked like it’d been ripped and healed and ripped and healed again. As far as merrows went he was rather dull in color—just a mottled gray and brown tail striped with scars.

A rescue merrow—found injured off the coast—David had a tank all to himself as he recuperated. He was quiet and despite his size and injuries, easy to care for. He didn’t seem very interested in the others, preferring to curl up in the ferns and sleep or rearrange the rocks in the sand to make a nest of sorts. Like everyone, however, David still seemed fond of Diarmuid. Every once in a while Rua would walk the pathway and find David nearly pressed against the glass of his own tank, watching the little merrow in the opposite tank as he smiled and danced. It was very sweet and very much like Diarmuid to try and cheer up the other merrow.

He seemed particularly protective of David. During feeding time Cathal had made an off-handed comment that perhaps their latest merrow acquisition was just a bit dim and that was why he wasn’t as verbal as the others and Diarmuid had given an angry chirp and thrown a shrimp at him.

As Rua laughed, Cathal asked, utterly baffled, “Why do you all keep throwing seafood at me?” But Diarmuid only pouted in reply and angrily devoured his grapes—which was perhaps even more adorable than how he usually ate. Rua nearly cooed but managed to stop himself at the last moment, cursing at what he had become.

* * *

That Diarmuid and David seemed to be fond of each other became very important information come summer. As the temperatures rose so to did the merrows’ interest in one another, and almost every day Rua saw that there was another new couple rebuilding their nest to fit two.

And then one day he walked to the tanks and heard Diarmuid trilling in distress. A high-pitched, ceaseless cry for help.

Rua rushed to the glass.

There was Raymond chasing after the frightened little merrow. Over the past few days they’d watched as Diarmuid gently rejected some of the others who were looking for a mate. Most had been disappointed but readily accepted Diarmuid’s decision.

Not so with Raymond, who refused to take no for an answer. Darting in between plants and rocks, Diarmuid kept up that piercing cry as he tried to avoid the larger merrow’s claws.

Ah, _fuck_. Was this anger and retaliation at Diarmuid’s refusal or an attempt to grab him and keep him by his side by force? Either way Rua feared for Diarmuid’s safety. He grabbed a net, scrambled up the ladder and to the water’s edge, placed the net into the tank, and called out to the merrow.

“Diarmuid, here! Come here!”

At the sound of his voice Diarmuid circled around and swam to the net as fast as he could. As soon as he was inside Rua hefted him out of the water.

And not a moment too soon as Raymond breached the surface, snarling and raging, gnashing his teeth at the loss of his prey.

“Yeah, no,” Rua snapped. “I’ve had quite enough of you today. Come on, Diarmuid, let’s get you somewhere safe.”

It was difficult to carry a squirming, crying merrow in a net down a ladder but somehow Rua managed to do it without either of them crashing to the ground. Diarmuid sniffled and rubbed his eyes. He looked quite tired and tearful but was otherwise unharmed.

Rua murmured, “Ah, you poor thing. Let’s get you somewhere safe.” The other merrows could at least stand toe-to-proverbial-toe with Raymond but Diarmuid was just so small. He’d have to have a talk with Ciaran later. They couldn’t have such an aggressive merrow with all the others.

There was a _thump_ on the glass. Rua thought at first that it was Raymond, still angry over Diarmuid’s escape, but it was coming from the opposite side of the pathway. He looked up to see David, practically pacing in his own tank and occasionally slamming his fist against the glass, concern written all over his scarred, bearded face.

He was just as worried, Rua realized. And Diarmuid needed another place to rest. Well, unapproved tank transfers were against the rules, but this was an extenuating circumstance. Rua once again made a precarious climb with the tiny merrow in tow and then gently set Diarmuid into the water. No sooner had he untangled himself from the net did David dash to his side. For a moment Rua feared that he’d royally fucked up—David was even larger than Raymond and a solitary creature at that—but Diarmuid’s face brightened at the sight of him. He twirled and danced and chirped with joy and swam right to the other merrow, curling his arms around David’s neck in an embrace.

Hm. Well, that was interesting.

“What’s all this, Rua? Why’s Diarmuid been moved? And David’s still healing from his injuries—he shouldn’t be cohabitating with another merrow just yet.”

Rua winced at the rare sound of anger in Ciaran’s voice. He replied, “There was an, uh, emergency in the other tank, so I just put Diarmuid over here for the time being.”

“What emergency?” Ciaran demanded.

Jesus, it was kind of an awkward thing to explain. “Well, it looks like Raymond wanted Diarmuid to be his mate and Diarmuid. Well, he didn’t. Want that. And I’m not sure what was going to happen but Raymond was chasing Diarmuid around and Diarmuid was crying, and I just caught him and moved him over here because he and David like each other. Except, it seems they _really_ like each other, because, well.” Rua shrugged toward the tank, where the two merrows inside were doing their best to cover the other in kisses.

The other man’s expression softened. “Ah,” Ciaran said. “Well, I think, in that case, you acted appropriately.”

They were silent as they watched David show Diarmuid the nest he’d been building with the rocks. It would easily fit the both of them, given how small Diarmuid was. Which, speaking of—

Rua cleared his throat. “There’s, uh, a bit of a size difference, here. Do we need to worry about that at all?”

Ciaran said chuckled and said, “I forgot that this is your first mating season. No, we don’t have to worry. Merrows lay eggs. A bit like fish.”

Rua imagined a tiny nest of eggs the size of marbles and then a large nest of eggs the size of his fist, and then decided he’d rather not imagine any of that at the moment because it just seemed too weird.

“Well,” he finally said, “I think they’d make pretty good parents. They seem to go pretty well together.”

Inside the tank Diarmuid was dancing and twirling and to their great surprise, David was attempting something of an awkward movement of his own. Diarmuid clapped and chirped with joy. David smiled.

“Yes, I think so, too,” Ciaran replied.


End file.
